Two Steps Forward

by Sharon Garlough Brown

  “Just scones and a pot of Earl Grey, please.”

  “No sandwiches?”

  “Not today, thank you. Just tea and scones.” Meg took the white linen napkin from the table and placed it in her lap. Her hands had begun to tremble ever so slightly. She waited for Claire to walk away before clearing her constricting throat.

  Emmanuel.

  You are with me.

  “I’m very sorry, Becca. I was very selfish to keep him from you. Please forgive me.”

  Becca unfolded her napkin without looking at Meg. “You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”

  “I do, actually,” Meg replied. “I wish you had grown up knowing stories about him, knowing how much he loved you, even before you were born. I should have told you stories. I should have shared him with you.”

  Becca exhaled with a frustrated sigh. “If you’re trying to make some bizarre connection between Simon and growing up without a dad, I’m not going to sit here and—”

  “No, honey. No. That’s not why I brought it up.” Lord. Help. Please. “Trust me. I realized back in October that this was something I wanted to say to you face to face, and that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to come visit. That’s all.”

  Becca stared at her hands. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Meg reached into her purse, pulled out Jim’s card, and presented it to her.

  “What’s this?” Becca asked.

  “A card your dad gave me, the day we saw you on the ultrasound.”

  Becca looked at the writing on the envelope but did not open it. “Mom, I—”

  “Go ahead. Open it.” Meg bobbed her head in encouragement. “It’s the last note he ever wrote to me, and it’s about you.”

  Becca set the envelope down on the table. “I’ve seen it.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “You couldn’t have! I just pulled it out of the attic a couple of months ago, along with a whole bunch of things I hid away after he died.”

  Becca was still staring at the card. “Mom, I’ve seen it. I found your box a long time ago. I read all his letters.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

  All of Jim’s letters? Everything in the box? The love letters he scribbled during Mr. Murray’s American history lectures in tenth grade? The “just because” cards he gave her whenever he wanted to encourage her? The apologies he wrote after they argued? All of them?

  “When?” Meg asked.

  “I don’t know. Sometime in elementary school, maybe. I used to go up to the attic after you and Gran were in bed, and I’d go through boxes. Then I’d put everything back just like I found it.” She looked at Meg, a sheepish expression on her face. “Are you mad?”

  Mad? Meg thought. No. Not mad. That wasn’t the word to describe what she was feeling. She didn’t have a word. Her emotions were too complicated for a word.

  “I’m not mad,” Meg said quietly. “I just wish I’d been the one to show you, to share him with you. I’m sorry it took me this long. Very sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Becca said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Don’t worry about it?

  That was it? Don’t worry about it?

  For nearly two months Meg had imagined this moment. She had built the scene up in her mind as a climactic juncture in their mother-daughter relationship, a moment of confession that would result in even deeper connection and intimacy. But nothing was playing out as she planned.

  Nothing.

  She was just about to put the envelope back into her purse when Becca pointed and said, “Can I see it? It’s been a few years.”

  Nodding, Meg handed her the card, then watched her remove it from the envelope, along with the ultrasound picture.

  Becca’s face betrayed no secrets about what she was feeling while she read. When she finished, she said, “I guess he got one wish, didn’t he? I got your eyes.”

  Yes, Meg thought, that was the one wish he had been granted.

  Claire returned with their tea and poured it for them. As they spread jam and cream on their scones, Meg thought again about the night Becca had asked if her daddy had a mustache. If only she had brought photos with her! There were albums in the attic chronicling their life together, as well as boxes of loose photos that had never been organized. That was something she could do when she returned home. She would bring down all the photos and give them the attention they deserved. Maybe she’d even frame some and put them around the house. Her mother would have objected. “Altars,” she would have called them. But her mother wasn’t there to object.

  “I’ve been such a coward, Becca. Such a coward. I was so afraid of my grief—so afraid I’d disintegrate into deep depression after your dad died that I did everything I could to lock him away so that I could function, so that I could just try to survive each day. Your grandmother always said I didn’t have the luxury of being sad, of feeling sorry for myself, that I needed to pull myself together and be a grown-up and move on.”

  Becca smiled wryly. “Yeah. That sounds like something Gran would say.” She handed the card back to Meg. “Not very touchy-feely, was she?”

  “No.” Meg mirrored Becca’s wry smile. “Not at all touchy-feely. She had her own way of dealing with hard things. Or not dealing with them. And I don’t think she ever really knew how to handle how deeply I felt everything.”

  Meg pressed the card to her chest.

  Emmanuel.

  You are with me.

  “I want you to know something,” Meg said, still clutching the card. “I want you to know that I loved your father more than I can say. More than words can ever express. He was the brightest light in my life, my dearest friend, and we had ten incredibly happy years together. Ten beautiful years. We spent years hoping and dreaming that someday we’d have a child to share our love with. And when I finally got pregnant with you—” She swallowed hard. “We were so excited. Your dad spent months remodeling a room in our little cottage, and I’d find him in there late at night, just dreaming about what it would be like once you were there. We didn’t know if you’d be a boy or a girl—we had decided we wanted to be surprised. But if I’d known that—”

  The back of Meg’s throat burned. Becca’s eyes were locked on hers.

  “If I’d known that he wouldn’t get a chance to hold you . . . I . . .” Meg tipped her chin up in an effort to fight back the encroaching tears. “Well . . . there are so many things I wish I’d done differently, Becca. So many things. I’m so sorry.”

  Becca took her hand and squeezed it in a consoling sort of way. “You did fine, Mom,” she said. “No harm done, okay? I think he would be proud of you.” Her phone buzzed with a text. She reached beneath the table for her purse and remained stooped over, face partially concealed. “I’ve got to go soon,” she said, straightening up again. “Simon’s on his way to the pub.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Meg twisted her napkin.

  “Listen,” Becca said, “I know I told you last night that I thought it would be best for both of us if you went home. But I’m cool with you staying, as long as you can handle my relationship with Simon.”

  Handle their relationship? What exactly did that mean? Condone it? Be happy about it? Pretend it was okay and then sit back and watch her give herself over to him? How could she manage that?

  She kept rearranging her napkin on her lap until she had some semblance of control over her voice. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “Let me think about what’s best. For both of us.”

  Becca reached for her coat. “It’s up to you. Just let me know.”

  Meg rose from the table and embraced her. “Thanks for staying for a while.”

  Becca kissed her cheek. “I love you, Mom. You know that, right?”

  Meg nodded, her tears beginning their delayed and swift flow down her cheeks.

  “Thanks for bringing the card with you, for wanting to share him with me.”

  There
was still so much Meg wanted to say, but it wasn’t time. Just wasn’t time.

  “I love you, Becca,” she said. Maybe that was enough for now.

  December 9

  I’ve been here a week. I planned to practice the prayer of examen every night to review my day with Jesus, but I became so overwhelmed that I forgot. These are the kind of days when I need to sit with God and talk about how hard things have been. Especially now, because I don’t know what to do, and I’m having trouble seeing how God is with me in all of this. Lord, please show me what You want me to see.

  How have I been aware of Your love and care for me the past few days?

  I remember Claire. She showed kindness when I needed it. She was like a messenger from You. Thank You, Lord. Thank You for the kindness You’ve shown me through strangers.

  The walks through London today were a gift. It felt like You were walking with me, enjoying it with me. Maybe that’s just my imagination about the enjoyment part. But I know You are with me wherever I go, and I like to think that there was Someone sharing my enjoyment today.

  I just feel so sad about Becca. So incredibly sad. I guess it was a gift for her to change her mind and say that she would be happy for me to stay. But how will I stay here and not feel bitter and resentful? Simon is stealing from her. He’s stealing from me. From us. And I hate it. It’s hard for me to see how You’re working in the midst of all of this. Really hard.

  At least I was able to ask for her forgiveness. She acted like it wasn’t a big deal, especially since she had already read all of Jim’s letters. I feel sad about that, too. I picture her as a little girl alone in that attic, reading those letters in secret while Mother and I slept, and I feel so sad. What a lonely life for a little girl.

  Oh, Lord.

  I see it.

  I remember.

  How old am I? Six? Seven? I’m playing hide-and-seek in the house with my friend Adrienne. I go to the attic. I know she’ll never find me there, and I hide in the corner behind some boxes. One of them has no lid, and I look inside. It’s full of old pictures. I see my daddy and start to cry. Mother hears me crying and she comes up the ladder and scolds me for being in the attic. Then she sends Adrienne home as punishment.

  I didn’t go back up there again until after Jim died, to put away the pictures and the letters. It was off-limits, and I didn’t dare defy Mother and risk being punished again.

  A lonely little girl in an attic filled with sorrow. Not just Becca, but me.

  Would I have scolded her if I had found her up there? Would I have told her she wasn’t allowed to be there? Maybe it’s best I didn’t know she was up there. I don’t know. I wish we could sit up there together now. I wish we could sort through boxes together. I’d tell her stories, things I haven’t thought about in years. Maybe she’s not even interested. I don’t know. I don’t know lots of things. I’m all confused.

  When I came here, I had one big thing on my mind. Talk to her about Jim. I wasn’t sure what, if anything, I would tell her about my dad and the family secrets that have come into the light. Now I don’t know what to do about anything. I thought that once her semester was over, we would have unlimited time together. Now if I stay, I have to share her with Simon. I don’t know what to do, Lord. And I don’t know how I’m going to hear Your voice when the voices inside my head are so noisy.

  Please help me recognize Your voice. Help me keep my hope fixed on You. No matter what. Help me trust You. And please don’t let me fall.

  Mara

  Since Tom was regularly sleeping on the basement sofa, Mara spent the night stretched out in the king-sized bed, trying to devise some method for gleaning information about Tom while protecting Kevin.

  Something inside Kevin trusted her and was reaching for her. No way she was going to betray or disappoint him. Help, God. Please show me what to do.

  At 3 a.m. a simple and obvious solution occurred to her: bake Christmas cookies to deliver to Tom’s office. The receptionist, a chatty busybody well past retirement age, had spent decades entrenched behind the front desk, knowing absolutely everything about absolutely everyone. Mara had intentionally cultivated a cordial relationship with her over the years to avoid becoming the target of her gossip. It seemed like the perfect plan. Even if Tom’s promotion wasn’t public information yet, Ilene would probably be aware of it. Hadn’t Jesus said something once about being “wise as a serpent, innocent as a dove”? Well, today maybe that wily wisdom was necessary to flush the truth into the light where it belonged.

  Before anyone else in the house was awake to disturb her, Mara pulled out her favorite cookbook, filled with pages torn from magazines, articles clipped from newspapers, and handwritten recipes from friends. She might never have the perfect monogrammed doormat or coordinated bunting sets for patriotic holidays, but she could hold her own against any Martha Stewart protégé in a bake-off. Christmas was her particular time to shine, both at the school and at the office. Her assorted and festive treats were yearly peace offerings and reparations for any stress caused to teachers by her sons or to work colleagues by her husband. Tom’s coworkers always loved when Mara visited at Christmas. And this year, they would get their goods early.

  She made a list of some of her greatest hits, then took an inventory of her haphazard pantry. She had plenty of food coloring and sprinkles in all different colors, but she needed to buy more baking soda and cream of tartar for the snickerdoodles. That was the secret combination that gave a signature tang and perfect chewiness to her cookies. Every year Ilene remarked that whenever she tried to make snickerdoodles, they tasted more like sugar cookies with cinnamon—what was she doing wrong? Mara would shrug her shoulders and play coy. Baking was one of the few arenas in which she excelled, and she wasn’t about to give away her simple secrets. Unless those secrets could be used as leverage.

  By two o’clock, Mara had filled three disposable aluminum trays with frosted sugar cookies, peppermint bark, fudge crinkles, double chocolate chip, peanut butter blossoms, and the renowned snickerdoodles. Never had she engaged in a baking marathon with so much at stake. Hopefully her herculean efforts would pay big dividends.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” Mara said as she entered the office building and set the first bribe down on Ilene’s desk.

  Ilene greeted her with a broad smile and chipper voice. “Has Santa come early this year?” She removed the cover and ogled the contents.

  “I’ve got two more trays in the car!” Mara had calculated the potential psychological impact of making multiple trips, just to emphasize the abundance of gifts.

  Ilene snatched a snickerdoodle, took a bite, and shook her head slowly in pleasure. “I know you put something special in these cookies,” she said, wagging her finger. “You’re still not gonna tell me your secret, are you?”

  Mara leaned toward her and winked conspiratorially. “I might be persuaded to make an exchange.”

  Ilene laughed. “I’ll have to think what I’ve got that’s worthwhile. Most exciting news around here is yours.”

  Mara held her breath. Could it seriously be this easy?

  Ilene didn’t wait for her response. “You still gonna send us cookies from Cleveland?”

  Mara nearly fell over backwards. Thank you, Lord, thank you, thank you, thank you! And then, Help, help, help. She hadn’t thought any further than trying to extort the information she needed, and now she didn’t know what to do with it. “Well, we’re gonna have to see about that,” she said as casually as possible. “I’ll go get the other trays—back in a sec!”

  Her knees weak, she shuffled through the automatic doors to her car. C’mon. Think. Think, think, think. Ilene hadn’t behaved like there was anything top secret about Tom’s promotion. There had been no hushed tones, just a matter-of-fact statement like it was old news. How long had he actually known about this? She offered some choice names for him under her breath and stacked the other trays.

  Just as she was slamming the car door shut with her hip, a long-time colleagu
e of Tom’s walked by. “Here, let me help you with those,” Frank said.

  “Thanks!” She handed over the trays and clicked the key fob to lock the car.

  “Christmas is early this year, huh?” He peeled back a corner of the foil lid to peek inside.

  She decided to fish. “Well, you know, with everything going on . . .”

  “I heard! I told Tom the corporate realtors are superb in handling all the relocation details. You won’t have anything to worry about.”

  Son-of-a—

  With rage mounting, Mara rallied every possible ounce of strength and put on her game face as they entered the building. Half a dozen people were already gathered around Ilene’s desk, sampling cookies and chorusing appreciation. As soon as Frank set the other trays down, the group converged on them. “You’ve outdone yourself this year!” Ilene crowed, and the rest agreed.

  “Well, just wanted to say thank you, you know, for all the years of putting up with Tom.”

  Ilene smirked. “Honey, there’s no possible way you could make up for him, for all he’s put me through over the years. Though I gotta say, I’m gonna miss that old curmudgeon. In a strange kind of way.”

  “Speak of the devil!” Frank exclaimed. Tom had just emerged from the hallway. When the initial wave of shock and astonishment faded from his eyes, his face reddened in apoplectic fury. Mara was grateful she was surrounded by a crowd of fresh allies.

  “Have a snickerdoodle!” Ilene called to him. He waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t be a party pooper.” Without replying, Tom made his way to her desk. He had his eyes locked on Mara. She stared back, refusing to be intimidated. And then she did something bold that surprised her.

  She grinned at him.

  The countenance that had been rapidly darkening to a deep shade of purple now blanched.

  “We were just saying how much we’ll miss her cookies when you move to Cleveland,” Ilene said.

  In all the years Mara had known him, she had never seen Tom at a loss for words. She kept smiling and handed him a fudge crinkle. “Your favorite,” she said sweetly, noting his furtive and wary glance around the circle as he took it. She dusted off her hands. “Well,” she said, “Santa’s got other deliveries to make today. Merry Christmas, everybody!”